


if you wanna be alone, come with me

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, and crowley's brain implodes, aziraphale holds crowley's hand, prerequisite pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: He’s beautiful, standing there beneath a street lamp that makes his white blonde hair glow like a fucking halo and the pure adoration shining in his eyes just for Crowley. And Crowley wants. Wants with a sudden burning need he hasn’t felt since he sat in the Bentley clutching a thermos full of holy water and watched Aziraphale walk away.





	if you wanna be alone, come with me

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Rylan by the National.

The moment they take their seats on the bus, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. His soft, manicured fingers clasp Crowley’s calloused ones in a grip that somehow manages to be both bold and uncertain at the same time. Crowley goes completely still, staring as Aziraphale rests their joined hands on his knee. He doesn’t technically need to breathe but after six thousand years, his body has grown quite used to it. Right now, he can’t even remember how. 

 

They’ve touched before, of course. Fleeting brushes of hands as they walked beside one another or passed a bottle of wine between them. Shoulders touching in a dark theatre as Crowley leaned in to hiss stinging commentary on every adaption of Hamlet that Aziraphale had ever dragged him to. Drunkenly slinging an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders as they stumbled down a street together. Once, he’d fallen asleep sprawled on the sofa in the bookshop and woken up to soft fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead _oh so carefully_ \- like a secret he wasn’t meant to be awake to hear.

 

But never anything like this. This deliberate, meant-to-be-seen touch. It feels like a declaration, like a line crossed with no intention of turning back. They’re only holding hands on a nearly empty bus in the middle of the night. It’s damn near innocent but it feels to Crowley like one of those moments in those ridiculous regency novels Aziraphale is so fond of where men come undone at a mere flash of their beloved’s ankle. Scandalous. Forbidden. Hardly a reaction worthy of the inventor of Sin itself. Aziraphale has been hell - heaven - _something_ on his respectability as a minion of Satan. 

 

Beside him, Aziraphale sits tense and unmoving. He refuses to meet Crowley’s bewildered stare, gazing pointedly ahead with only a telltale flush coloring his cheeks to give him away. With an ache in his chest, Crowley realizes he’s waiting for an answer. Doesn’t the blessed idiot know the answer has been _yes_ since the Garden? 

 

Tentatively, Crowley strokes his thumb over the angel’s knuckles. Aziraphale nearly melts into the seat at his quiet acceptance, eyes fluttering as all the tension leaves his frame at once. So clever, Crowley thinks fondly. But so stupid. Aziraphale’s shoulder brushes his as he sinks into his seat with something like relief. A tiny, contented smile curls his mouth and Crowley looks away, glaring resolutely out the window before he can give in to the wild urge to drape himself over Aziraphale’s lap. 

 

That, he imagines, is probably what Aziraphale had meant when he once said _too fast_. 

 

They sit in silence while the bus drives them all the way to London and Aziraphale never once lets go of his hand. Once the bus pulls up outside of Crowley’s building, he pauses on his way out to profusely thank their poor confused driver until Crowley rolls his eyes and nudges him impatiently forward. He waits until Aziraphale turns away before he digs a generous tip from his back pocket and hands it over to the driver. 

 

Stepping out onto the pavement, Aziraphale glances at him with that infuriatingly soft expression like he knows what Crowley had done. Over the rim of his glasses, Crowley raises an eyebrow and silently dares him to mention it. Instead, Aziraphale glances away. “Shall we go up?”

 

With a nod, Crowley is about to lead the way when something in Aziraphale’s voice registers - something shy and hopeful, like a human asking a date to come inside for coffee after a lovely evening. The suggestion implicit in the question makes his throat close up. He sways for a moment on the pavement, Aziraphale’s hand still in his and bright blue eyes watching him knowingly. “You-” He stops and clears his throat, trying to speak and be heard over the furious pounding in his chest. “You sure?”

 

Aziraphale hums, a serene smile on his face as he steps close enough to touch the toes of his Oxfords to the toes of Crowley’s snakeskin boots. He’s near enough to breathe in and Crowley does so greedily - pages brittle with age, dust motes in sunlight, perfectly steeped English Breakfast, and the damp grass of Eden in the morning. It’s been a long time since Crowley thought of the scent of Aziraphale as anything other than simply _home_. He allows himself a moment to let his eyes fall closed behind his dark glasses, struggling against the way his knees want to buckle beneath him. 

 

Nose brushing Crowley’s jaw tenderly - Christ, Satan, _somebody_ help him - Aziraphale murmurs, “I’m sure, darling.”

 

His breath catches, forming in his throat like a long-held sob. “Angel-”

 

“The world almost ended today,” Aziraphale whispers, and there’s such wonder in his voice. Like he can’t quite believe they’re still here. 

 

Crowley can’t answer, too immersed in the sudden searing memory of walking into a burning bookshop and believing his best friend had been consumed by hellfire. Lost to him forever. The quiet, despairing certainty that eternity without a huffy, old-fashioned, ridiculous angel beside him was an eternity he wanted no part of. His world had indeed almost ended today, long before the showdown at Tadfield Airbase. 

 

Aziraphale sighs and the warm gust of air caresses Crowley’s stubbled jaw. He fights back a shudder. “I’m quite through pretending, aren’t you?”

 

Crowley wants to laugh. “Dunno.” He forces his eyes open and the sight of Aziraphale so close and his gaze so open and earnest forces an answer from him more honest than he’d like. “Been pretending for so long - not sure what I’d be without it.”

 

“No, me either.” Aziraphale pauses, brow furrowed. “But I think perhaps… _happy_.”

 

Something inside Crowley squirms at that, snarling in wounded rebellion the way it always does when Aziraphale so much as suggests he might be anything less than demonic. _Unforgivable, that’s what I am_. He flicks his gaze away, somewhere over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Not sure I deserve that.”

 

Aziraphale’s eyes blaze with a sudden, startling intensity. _I forgive you_. “None of that now, my dear.” He fidgets, straightening his bowtie. “It’s like you said, after all.” 

 

He swallows and Crowley watches warily as he steels himself and lifts a trembling hand to his cheek. The warmth of him is staggering. A sunrise wrapped up in the form of a mild-mannered book collector. Crowley can feel the essence of him seeping beneath his skin and instead of recoiling like a proper demon should, he turns instantly into the touch like a starved cat, nuzzling Aziraphale’s palm. Hating himself for being so bleeding desperate for any scrap of affection but unwilling to pull away after six thousand years of being denied. 

 

“We’re on our own side now.”

 

“Yes.” Crowley wraps his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist, pressing a deliberate kiss to the center of his palm. 

 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh.” 

 

For all his eagerness to bestow Crowley with affectionate little touches, he seems entirely unprepared for any sort of reciprocation. That could be fun. Crowley relishes the flush in his cheeks, the shudder he can’t quite hide. He’s beautiful, standing there beneath a street lamp that makes his white blonde hair glow like a fucking halo and the pure adoration shining in his eyes just for Crowley. And Crowley _wants_. Wants with a sudden burning need he hasn’t felt since he sat in the Bentley clutching a thermos full of holy water and watched Aziraphale walk away. 

 

He isn’t walking away now. Slowly, Crowley reaches up and pulls his sunglasses away from his face, tucking them into his jacket. Aziraphale stares at him like he just undressed right in front of him, his eyes glassy and transfixed - _worshipful_. The blasphemy of it makes Crowley bite back a groan. “ _Yes_ ,” he says again, softer now as he ducks his head. 

 

Aziraphale makes a quiet, whimpering noise the moment their lips meet. His eyes flutter closed and his hands fist in Crowley’s jacket like all the forces of heaven and hell might descend any moment to take this away from him and he doesn’t plan to lose it without a fight. Crowley stifles a smile, cradling his jaw and flicking his tongue teasingly against soft, plump lips until they part in a pleased gasp. Aziraphale tastes like candy floss, like lazy summer afternoons, like falling into a warm bed happy and just a little bit drunk. 

 

He wonders briefly what he must taste like to the angel - if sulphur and blood bloom in a rotting bouquet in his mouth - but then Aziraphale makes another soft, delighted noise against his lips and Crowley stops expecting him to pull away in revulsion. His worries dissolve like the angel had splashed them in holy water and there’s nothing left to do but sink into Aziraphale’s broad chest and try to trace six thousand years worth of longing into the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. 

 

He can’t be sure how long they stand there on the pavement, wrapped around one another under a streetlight and snogging each other silly but it feels at once like an eternity and no time at all. Like too much and not nearly enough when he finally unseals his mouth from Aziraphale’s with a shuddering gasp. Still clinging to him, Aziraphale blinks and sways in place, looking dazed. His lips are bruised a brilliant red and his eyes shine as he wavers forward on unsteady legs, chasing after Crowley’s mouth with a little pout. 

 

“Well,” he breathes, clearing his throat. “That was - what do the humans call it?” He brightens. “ _Goals_.”

 

Crowley smirks, brushing his thumb fondly over the angel’s swollen lips. He should have known Aziraphale would like kissing, the little hedonist. _His_ little hedonist now. Perhaps always had been. His heart twists - utterly soppy and downright embarrassing, that is. He’ll get around to asking Aziraphale just when it all began for him but right now there’s a brand new beginning of a different sort that Crowley is far more interested in pursuing.

 

“More where that came from, angel,” he promises, with one last kiss to the unfairly charming curve of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Come on. Let me tempt you to a bottle of ’45 _Lafleur_.”

 

They go hand-in-hand, just as - Crowley suspects, _hopes_ \- they always will. 


End file.
